


I Was Buried Here, by Todd Peterson

by ATiredPan



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: I was inspired let me live, Poetry, mediocre poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 06:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14785481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATiredPan/pseuds/ATiredPan
Summary: It all starts with Damian Al-Ghul-Wayne. The youngest of the Wayne brood is notoriously difficult with the press, so both the candid shots they get of him reading and the 5 second interview about his thoughts are notable enough to grab the city's attention. When straight-laced Timothy Drake-Wayne interrupts his own press conference to talk about a poem he liked, the interest of a larger, more serious audience is piqued. Then Dick Grayson waxes on about it at Vicky Vale instead of answering the (highly intrusive) questions he was asked for an entire interview, and at least half the Eastern Seaboard decides they enjoy poetry.Of course it all comes to a head when BRUCE WAYNE sits out on a GALA to read at the bar, and Todd Peterson becomes one of the best known names in modern poetry. Someone cultivates a book of his works and Wayne Enterprises is publishing them, suddenly and with dubious legality.Also known as mediocre poetry I'm writing in Jason's name, please don't hurt me.





	I Was Buried Here, by Todd Peterson

**Author's Note:**

> "To my father whom I love, may he rot in hell"

You breathe this city  
And I breathe it too  
And I think we forget, you and I,  
That most people walk through.

She is detestable  
And yet, I feel her pulse underground  
And sync it with my own  
Because I was raised on that sound.

I’ve left her in tatters  
And you’ve stayed to forsake her  
And still we both find her skyline  
When the night starts to stir.

A brother of mine cries  
And screams at her pain  
And I know still he’ll heal separate  
From how we echo her rain.

A son of yours has heard  
And translated her ministrations  
And won’t think that knowledge for love; he’s hers  
Yet somehow immune to her temptations

She crows, the old wench,  
And expects us as they do to powder her blemishes  
And lashes out when we reveal them instead,  
Coloring in the grey she relishes.

You taught me perhaps to save her,  
And love her morning light,  
And you’ve taught each child the same,  
You nor I were taught to thrive within her night.

I’ve given my heart to her wretched hands,  
And that’s a lie; she’s stolen it, I assume,  
And held it hostage with yours,  
So even to die we’d lie in her tomb.

I hate her completely, this city,  
And know you do as I do,  
And know we two will still be found  
In the gallows with the shrew.

Todd Peterson


End file.
